


Rummage Sale

by Amber



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Derek, Breakfast in Bed, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Sweatpants, jockstrap
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-14 06:54:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1256998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amber/pseuds/Amber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I know you and I are not about poems or other sentimental bullshit, but I have to tell you even the way you drink your coffee just knocks me the fuck out." -- Clementine von Radics.</p><p>Just snippets of established relationship Sterek.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the one with the crotch-grinding

**Author's Note:**

> So I've been doing "writing sprints" solely to get the words flowing again, and often I write to little prompts or to cheer friends up, and the end result is piecemeal, to say the least. I don't know how much there'll be, and there's no particular plot or continuity beyond existing in the same universe (one where Stiles and Derek live together and Stiles is in college and things are AU from current canon as required.) So this fic is basically a series of gratuitous, unbetaed warm-up exercises.
> 
> I'm really selling it here, huh.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jock strap lapdance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Cait](http://captain-snark.tumblr.com/) wrote #i need a sterek fic based around [this gif](http://25.media.tumblr.com/4085c8e55a9c5aac148a5042d34aad99/tumblr_mzat6kPuxS1rw4ycno1_250.gif). (NSFW!)
> 
> So I wrote one.

Stiles tosses down his lacrosse gear noisily when he gets home, goes straight to the fridge and takes a long pull of juice straight from the carton, throat bobbing. He sighs after, glad to take the edge off some of his thirst: his water bottle had emptied halfway through suicides. College varsity is way more hardcore than anything he did in high school, but it beats having to posture at the gym twice a week.

He puts the juice away, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and heads into the living room, already kicking off his shoes haphazardly, pulling his sweaty t-shirt over his head. Stiles is still shy in the locker rooms, but here it's just him and Derek. Who, speaking of:

"Derek?" He's not loud, because if Derek's home he doesn't need to be. "Are you— oh, hey baby."

Stiles grins, tone turning syrupy. Derek's asleep on their dump-ass couch, bare feet up on the cushions, face tucked into his own bicep. There's a little dark spot of drool on his grey shirtsleeve, and his face looks so soft and sweet in sleep that Stiles just wants to coo about it. Only because he's asleep, though. He doesn't actually call Derek "baby" within his hearing, outside of those times Top 40 infects their Pandora playlists and Stiles mock-serenades him.

Derek's a light sleeper, so if the door didn't wake him up then Stiles calling his name definitely would have, but his eyes are insistently closed, breathing rhythmically even. Stiles puts a knee on the couch in the space left by the curved crook of his body, bends down to breathe hot over Derek's neck and ear.

"Wake up," he murmurs, drawing back to watch the way a little crease forms between Derek's eyebrow. His eyelashes flutter, long and dark against his cheekbones, but his eyes don't open. Sometimes he's so pretty that Stiles just wants to like, bite him. "Ugh," he says, louder, and fits himself awkwardly onto the couch, forcing Derek to give way for him. Just when he thinks this isn't going to work, he's gonna fall off the edge and onto his ass and elbow, Derek wraps an arm around his waist and hauls him in closer to be spooned.

"You smell," he informs Stiles, the insult softened by the bleariness of his tone, and then further by the way he nuzzles towards the back of Stiles' armpit, seeking it.

"I had practice," Stiles says. He reaches back a little, digs his fingers hard into Derek's thighs through his sweatpants, which makes Derek grunt and press his hips up against Stiles' ass. He's always more reactionary when he's just come awake, even if he's like a cat, able to go between fast asleep and wide awake without any seeming transition period. More tactile, too, as evidenced by the way his hand is roaming over Stiles' bare abdomen, slipping beneath the waistband of his sports shorts to massage his femoral triangle. He encounters elastic, hums. Stiles can feel his dick twitch.

"Are you wearing—"

"My jockstrap? Yeah."

Derek makes a low, pleased noise, twisting to get his face under Stiles' arm, kiss down the side of his ribs. Stiles moves with it, twisting slowly around to face Derek. "Yeah, you're into that, aren't you. Me with my junk all sweaty in my tight pouch. Aching because there's not enough room for me to get hard for you."

"Shut up," Derek says, reaching down to cup Stiles like verification.

"Make me," Stiles smirks, because it's the most awful cliche but it's practically rote by now. They both know Derek loves Stiles dirty-talking, and they both know Derek isn't making Stiles do shit.

"You're the one interrupting my nap so you can get some," says Derek, like he's not mouthing hickeys across Stiles' chest right now. He bites a nipple, stretches it between his teeth, and Stiles hisses a breath, nostrils flaring.

"Screw you _so_ much." Stiles pulls back, eyebrows right up, eyes sparkling as he rolls unsteadily up onto his knees, watches Derek chase after him, like he can't bear to take his mouth off his skin. "You want me to let you nap? I could go shower, let you get some shut-eye?" Derek doesn't say anything, just pulls Stiles properly into his lap. "Yeah, that's what I thought."

And that's just the right angle for kissing, so Stiles does, grinding down and pressing his tongue into Derek's mouth. He's still a little overenthusiastic, but he's discovered he likes kissing a whole lot when he gets to be the one to initiate and direct it, tilt Derek's jaw up at just the right angle to fuck in. He moans softly, pushes his groin against the tent Derek's seriously pitching in his sweats right now.

He's been doing okay so far for like, not thinking — it's lacrosse, prolonged exercise leaves him kinda mindless. But his hips tip up, Derek's clothed dick nudges the curve of his ass, and abruptly Stiles' brain is reminding him of a topic he's been kinda dwelling on lately.

Usually, Derek bottoms. And that's fine, they both love that. Derek is kind of a pain slut, loves to have someone nailing him hard. Stiles likes the way he goes all open and vulnerable under him, the sight of his asshole stretched pink around Stiles' hard cock, the way it makes him feel powerful and in control of his life the way nothing else freaking does. It's intimate, it feels good, and it is so fucking hot. But it's been long enough now that Stiles is totally past his bisexuality crisis, and he's ready, way ready, to switch it up.

Stiles stands up.

"Stiles," Derek starts, probably more plaintive than he means to be, reaching to pull him back. But Stiles shakes his head and bats his hand away as he shimmies out of his shorts.

"I thought you might wanna get a look," he says, mischievous. He turns around so Derek can see his ass in the jockstrap, which Stiles knows from his own adventures with a hand mirror in the bathroom, is really, uh, emphasized. He smacks one cheek, bends forwards a little so his cheeks part, which makes his face heat but he can hear Derek's breath catch so it's obviously a solid move. "Yeah, that's all for you."

"Thanks," Derek says dryly, grabs his hips, leans forward, and puts his mouth there.

Stiles makes a long, stuttery high noise, because. Okay. He wasn't exactly expecting that. It's not totally new, Derek has proven time and time again that there's literally nowhere on Stiles he doesn't enjoy putting his mouth, but Stiles was in the middle of his dirty fuck-me-now strip show, and sudden rimming is a surprise. Derek's beard rasps over his sensitive skin as he presses his face into Stiles' ass — and he's really getting up in there, barely taking any time to lick sloppily before he's trying to fuck Stiles with his tongue. Stiles clenches and then gives way for it, and has to grab onto his own knees so he doesn't just fall over and die.

"Just so you know, I'm pretty sure my legs aren't gonna hold me upright for long," he pants, breathless, because he can feel his aching muscles protesting as he pushes back into a squat to get more of Derek's mouth. Derek chuckles — which for the record, feels _super weird_ against his butthole — and draws back, wipes his mouth off with his hand just like Stiles does after drinking juice.

"Lean back," Stiles says, and Derek does, thighs spread, shoulders back, something lazy in his posture, left-over from his couch nap. He probably thinks Stiles is about to find a way to get his mouth back where it was, but instead Stiles just sits in his lap, fitting easily into the cradle of his hips.

"Don't even try it," Stiles murmurs when Derek reaches up to cup his face, tries to twist him around to be kissed. "Not until you've had some quality time with your toothbrush."

"It's not like you've never had your mouth on my junk," Derek says, put out. He kisses a freckle on Stiles' shoulderblade instead.

"Yeah, your junk. Operative word, your. I at no point wanna know what my own ass tastes like, okay?" Stiles responds, grinding back over Derek's erection, his sweats sticking a little to the spit-wet crease of his ass. He works his ass up and down like he's a stripper giving a lapdance, and honestly, this isn't any easier on his thighs than before, but Derek's sudden speechlessness is so worth it. " _Okay_ , Derek?"

"Yeah," Derek agrees mindlessly. Stiles can feel his fingers sliding over his ass, as he slides back further in his seat, as he watches.

"I want you to fuck me," Stiles says, rushed, anticipation of Derek's response making him go tense. But Derek just groans and his fingers slip left, so that Stiles' is grinding directly onto them.

"Now?" he asks, pushing the tip of one in, just the pad more than anything else, nail catching a little on the rim. Even with the remnants of Derek's rimjob, it seems like there's going to be too much friction, too much—

"I don't know," Stiles pants, unsteady for a minute as he squeezes where his erection is cramped in the pouch of his jock, trying to ease that ache. "Do you want to? Now?"

"No," Derek says, and Stiles' stomach drops. He can physically feel it, the rush of cold down his legs, but Derek winds an arm around his waist and pulls him properly into his lap, presses the flat of his blunt teeth against Stiles' shoulder in something that's either a grimace of a laugh. "I mean, I want to. But not now. I'd like to take my time with you."

"And you can't take your time now?" Stiles teases, strong relief making everything sparkly.

"Right now, I'm about to come in my sweatpants," Derek tells him ruefully, and Stiles grins and grins.

"And after that?"

"After that." Derek's voice has dropped, choppy with his panting, mouth against Stiles' neck,  hot behind his ear. "After that I'm going to tear that jockstrap off with my teeth. Then I'm going to put you in bed and work over your muscles until you can't move. Then I'm going to rim you until you cry."

Stiles groans, rocks back harder over Derek, the damp fabric bunching.

"Okay, cool. And after that?"

Derek starts to laugh, but it chokes off into a groan as he ruts, suddenly, frantic, against Stiles' ass. Derek holds him very tight, trembling, and then wet heat blooms between them as he comes. Stiles finds his hand where it's gripping his chest, twines their fingers together. They don't need an itinerary, not really. They'll get there, the way they always do.


	2. the one where california is flooding the fuck out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rainy day, breakfast in bed, ass pounding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's to offset [Lauren's](http://tidepooling.tumblr.com/) no good very bad day.

"You're all wet," Stiles murmurs incoherently against the pillow, mouth loose, peering at Derek through his lashes. But it's not like those times he used to dream of fingering Lydia. Derek's kissing his neck. He can smell wet hair, and coffee, and bacon.

"It's raining," says Derek, like that's an explanation. Stiles knows it's raining, duh: the torrential downpour is constant white noise against the roof and windows. And in case he hadn't noticed the freak rainstorm for himself, pretty much every news channel and social media website is abuzz with how shockingly wet California is for this time of year. Like, okay, rain, he gets it. But he's pretty sure a moment ago Derek was in bed with him, where it's warm, and dry.

Stiles decides this mystery is probably worth waking up for, scrubs the back of his knuckles over his scrunched up face before slowly working his way out of his blanket cocoon, blinking his eyes open. Derek really is wet, his normally gelled hair drying from where it's been plastered to his head, a new, dry t-shirt sticking to damp skin in places, outlining his torso. Stiles hums and cups his face and is reminded exactly how he'd come to the realization in the first place — even Derek's beard is wet.

Okay, so maybe there had been more sleep in between Derek crawling out of his octopus embrace and now than he'd realized.

"Where'd you go?" Stiles asks, working his fingers under the hem of Derek's shirt. His abdomen is chill to the touch under Stiles' warm fingers, and the slide of his hands has a slight friction to it thanks to Derek's wet skin.

"Groceries," Derek says, like it's no big deal. "We were out of eggs."

Stiles' mouth purses in an aww, which just makes Derek look away, gruff. "Did you go out in the rain for meee?" he wheedles, delighted.

"We were out of eggs," Derek repeats firmly, but the exasperation in his tone translates to fondness once it reaches his eyes.

"You're all cold," Stiles says, and it's totally sympathy and concern and not at all a prelude to offering to warm Derek up.

Stiles' hands slide around so he can thumb at the groove of Derek's hips, leaning in to be kissed even though he knows he has serious morning breath. Derek doesn't even wrinkle his stupidly oversensitive werewolf nose, and that's how Stiles knows it's love.

Well, that and the breakfast in bed.

It doesn't take long for Derek to put the brakes on: "I didn't walk all the way to Ralph's just for your breakfast to go cold."

"I like cold eggs," Stiles lies, but he powers down sex-mode Stilinski, disentangles himself and sits up against the headboard. 

"Nobody likes cold eggs," Derek tells him, wedging himself in next to Stiles and lifting the makeshift tray over to sit on both their thighs. Stiles eats his bacon with lightning speed, and then steals Derek's and eats that too. Derek smacks his knuckles with a fork, but doesn't actually _stop_ him — it's possible that he cooks himself a portion with the expectation that Stiles will steal it, since Stiles has never seen him actually eat any.

The eggs are cooked perfectly because while Derek may fuck up every other part of his life spectacularly on the reg, he is an amazing housewife.

"These are good," Stiles says with his mouth full, because positive reinforcement is important, and wipes up the last of the yolk with his toast. Derek pulls an impressively unimpressed face at him. "Worth a BJ at _least_."

Coolly: "Thanks."

"Hey, it's early," Stiles protests, or at least, he thinks it's early. Possibly the unlikely grey light has tricked his brain. Derek doesn't correct him, though. "Don't make me go for sexual gold when I haven't even woken up properly yet."

In response, Derek grabs the coffee from the bedside table and passes it across. It's French Press. They're definitely spending the morning fucking.

"You only like me for my body," Stiles grumbles, and drinks it.

Derek takes the empty plates to the kitchen and Stiles is once again left to wonder if it's possible for someone to have a kink for doing basic housework for the other person, because if so then that is definitely what Derek is into. He tests this theory by following him into the kitchen, where Derek is wrist deep in foam and yellow gloves, wrapping his arms around Derek's waist and hooking his chin over his shoulder.

"The point of breakfast in bed is that you stay in bed," Derek points out, scrubbing a pan. He doesn't really react to Stiles draping all over him, has come to accept what drives most other people crazy, that unless Stiles has something really huge and complex to concentrate his focus on, he basically wants attention from other people 24/7.

"Does doing the dishes turn you on?"

"Stiles, what—"

"I'm serious, are you getting in the mood right now? All that warm water... the smooth, repetitive motion as you push the cloth _deep_ into that glass..."

"Please stop." Derek sounds pained.

Stiles' hands dip into his sweatpants, just feeling out the tops of his thighs. "Worried I've stumbled upon your deep dark secret?" he teases, can practically hear Derek rolling his eyes even if he can't see it. "Maybe if I dressed you up in a little maid outfit..."

Derek's breath catches. Stiles' eyes light up and he goes in for the kill.

"Yeah? Would you like that? Little white apron. Ruffly skirt so short, I could totally objectify you whenever you bend over to like, dust the... the table." Yes. Five star dirty-talk, right here. Okay, so table-dusting, mildly implausible, but Derek is vibrating with tension now, gone still and quiet in his arms, and doesn't seem to care. Stiles noses at the nape of his neck, opens his mouth there, hot and wet like a promise. "Do a good enough job getting everything all clean and tidy, and then I'll lay you out and we'll get it messy again."

"Stiles," Derek says, though it's more despairing than anything else. "Can you at least let me finish the washing up?"

Stiles' hand slides across to where Derek is commando in his sweats, rolling his plumped up dick in his palm. "Oh, I can feel how much you like the idea." Derek makes a noise, short and probably higher than he meant it to be, and Stiles tugs at his cock, working it harder with long pulls of his fist. "Keep washing those plates, Derek, get 'em squeaky clean."

There's not really enough dishes for a tug job, let alone anything more, but Derek is taking them slowly, his breath coming faster as Stiles' hand moves over his cock. He lifts it, letting the head drag across the soft material of Derek's sweatpants, points it down again, making Derek's stomach muscles jump.

"Enough," Derek breathes, puts a plate on the sideboard with such force that they're both surprised when it doesn't crack. He strips off his rubber gloves carelessly, leaving them inside out, one dropping into the still-full sink as he turns and catches Stiles' face in his hands. The kiss is a little desperate, like he's been aching for it, trying to hold back.

Derek pulls back from it with a smacking noise, and looks at Stiles, all intense green stare and hair drying wrong. His hands are warm from the water, but dry, this time. "You're so hot," Stiles says helplessly, pushes forward for more, demanding his rightful place in Derek's personal space.

Stiles has beard burn by the time they make it back to the bedroom, and he doesn't even care.

"I can't believe you cooked me breakfast just so I'd fuck you," Stiles breathes, thumbing a trail of lube back towards Derek's asshole. "You're such a cockslut, I love it."

"It wasn't—" Derek starts, but Stiles pushes two fingers back into him and he never reaches the end of that denial, grunting soft groans into the pillow, fingers clenching in the rucked up sheets.

Stiles' fingers are long and crooked and he's well experienced in how to use them to take Derek to pieces. He almost likes this more than fucking, because he's still with it, despite the insistent throb of his own dick, still able to take in the way Derek's moans pitch to low rumbles when he finger-fucks him with slow deliberation, or go high and fast when he taps slowly around and over his sensitive prostate.

"Oh god," Derek breathes, the lube crackling as Stiles' arm flexes faster. "Oh god."

There are a lot of really cool things about dating a werewolf, and one of them is that growing up with the full moon giving him a rage attack every month means that Derek has really spectacular self-control. Which Stiles loves for two reasons. One: he can go as hard as he likes, for as long as he likes, and he doesn't have to worry about Derek finishing too early, because the man could hold back from coming for like, fifty years if he wanted to. Two: the deep sense of self-satisfaction he gets from snapping it.

"Stiles, stop fucking around," Derek begs, working his ass back on Stiles' fingers like if he grinds hard enough they'll turn to dick. "I'm ready. I was ready ten minutes ago."

"Mm," Stiles hums like he's unconvinced, draws his fingers out. "Spread for me."

Derek complies immediately, tipping his hips up, knees wide, hole glistening pink. Stiles smacks his dick there a couple of times before working the head in, loving the sight of Derek stretched out around it, feeling the way his muscles work trying to take it. He screws in, just a little ways, out again, Derek going _aaah, aaah_ like he's in intense pain. (Something that worried Stiles the first time, but these days he's pretty used to the fact that Derek makes more noise giving way to pleasure than he ever does when he's actually hurt.)

With a slap to Derek's ass to distract him, Stiles pops the head of his dick right in and keeps pushing, gliding deeper, feeling Derek flex around him as he bottoms out. He pants for a moment, eyes closed tight and mouth loose.

"You're tight," he whispers. Unusually so, but then, they haven't done this in a while. Stiles rolls his hips slowly, getting them both used to it, the way he's making a space inside Derek just for himself.

"Get on with it," Derek grits out, reaching back a hand to slide over Stiles' thigh, his flexing ass, encouraging him closer, harder. Stiles fucks him obligingly, bracing himself on Derek's back, head low between his shoulders as he works up a sweat. He goes _hard_ , hard enough that they're both slowly sliding their way up the bed, and Derek presses his forearm against the headboard and cries out.

"Turn over," he says eventually, pulls out and bends Derek in two to push back in again. Derek slings an arm over his face like a last bastion of protection, but Stiles pushes it out of the way again. He wants to see the way Derek's face has gone slack, eyebrows raised a little, lower lip chewed red. Pleasure flickers across it with every thrust. He wants to see the way Derek's eyebrows draw in tighter when he's getting close, the flush that starts at his ears and spreads down his neck, blotches his chest. Derek never comes just from this, never _just_ from Stiles spearing him open, but while it's happening he always looks more blissed out than even his hardest orgasm.

Stiles manages to keep it up until he simply can't, arousal swooping though him as his hips start up a jagged rut. "Oh, I'm close," he says. It's the first coherent thing either of them have said in a while, but sometimes that's just how it goes. Stiles likes dirty-talk, but he also likes staying as quiet as he can and listening to how loud Derek gets. "Fuck, Derek, I'm close, I'm gonna come."

"Yeah." Derek grabs his ass, hips still grinding up to meet Stiles' thrusts even though there's no longer any tempo. "In me." And normally Stiles might have something to say about how demanding that is, but at this point he has no words and no choice but to tumble over the edge. 

Derek's ass is slicker, now, hotter, and Stiles' movements slow, though occasionally he twitches forward hard in an aftershock. "You can stop," Derek says, reaching down between them to catch Stiles' dick at the base, ease it out in a rush of fluid. He slicks his palm up with it, lowers his legs and beats off steadily.

"I should—" Stiles starts, but Derek bats his hands away. Sometimes he's like this, needs his own palm to get there. Stiles can see the way he has to concentrate, all that high pleasure from getting fucked closing down into something more determined as Stiles watches from the crook of his free arm. The pull of Derek's forearms and biceps look good, as does the shiny head of his cock slipping in and out of the clutch of his fist.

"I love you," Stiles murmurs, because the affection is giddy in him, leaving his voice thick. Derek grunts and spills, shuddering.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [deadpans](http://deadpans.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


End file.
